James Patterson - Cross

Sampson finally pushed himself forward in his seat. He'd heard enough bullshit for tonight. "Anybody ever tell you you could do stand-up?" he asked. And, Marion, you could be his straight man.

"Matter of fact, yeah," Giametti said, and smirked. "Couple of people told me that exact same thing. You know what? I think they were cops too."

"Paulina has already told us she saw you kill her friend Alexa. Alexa was sixteen years old when she died. The girl was garroted!"

Giametti slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. "The crazy little bitch. Paulie is lying through her teeth. What'd you do, threaten to send her back? Deport her to Poland? That's her biggest fear."

Sampson shook his head. "No, I said we'd help her stay in America if we could. Get her into school. The best. Do the right thing by her."

"She's lying, and she's nuts. I'm telling you, that pretty little girl is two kinds of crazy."

Sampson nodded slowly. "She's lying? All right, then how about Roberto Gallo? Is he lying too? He saw you kill Alexa and stuff the body in the trunk of your Lincoln. He made that up?"

"Of course he made it up. That's total bullshit; it's complete crap. You know it. I know it. Bobby Gallo knows it. Alexa? Who the hell is Alexa? Paulie's imaginary friend?"

Sampson shrugged his broad shoulders. "How would I know Gallo's story is bullshit?"

"Because it never happened, that's how! Because Bobby Gallo probably made a deal with you."

"You mean – it didn't happen that way? Gallo wasn't actually an eyewitness? But Paulina was. Is that what you're saying?"

Giametti frowned and shook his head. "You think I'm stupid, Detective Sampson? I'm not stupid."

Sampson spread his hands to indicate the small, very bright interview room. "But here you are."

Giametti thought about it for a few seconds. Then he gestured toward Handler. "Tell Junior here to go take a nice long walk off a short pier. I want to talk to you. Just you and me, big man."

Sampson looked over at Marion Handler. He shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Why don't you take a break, Marion?"

Handler didn't like it, but he got up and left the interrogation room. He made a lot of noise on the way out, like a petulant high school kid who'd just been given detention.

Sampson didn't say anything once he and Giametti were alone. He was still observing the mobster, trying to get under the punk's skin. The guy was a murderer – that much he knew. And Giametti also had to know that he was up shit creek right now. Paulina Sroka was fourteen years old.

"The strong, silent type?" Giametti smirked again. "That your act, big boy?"

Still not a word from Sampson. It went on that way for several minutes.

Giametti finally leaned forward, and he spoke in a quiet, serious voice. "Look, you know this is bullshit, right? No murder weapon. No body. I didn't clip any little Polack girl named Alexa. And Paulie is crazy. Trust me on that one. She's young in years, but she's no little girl. She was hooking in the old country. You know about that?"

Sampson finally spoke. "Here's what I know, and what I can prove. You were having sex with a fourteen-year-old in your own house."

Giametti shook his head. "She's not fourteen. She's a little whore. Anyway, I have something for you, something to trade. It's about a friend of yours – Alex Cross. You listening, Detective? Hear this. I know who killed his wife. I know where he is now too."

JOHN SAMPSON GOT OUT of his car slowly, and he trudged along the familiar stone walkway, then up the front stairs of the Cross family house on Fifth Street.

He hesitated at the door, trying to collect his thoughts, to calm himself down if he could. This wasn't going to be easy, and no one would know this more than he did. He knew things about Maria Cross's murder that even Alex didn't.

Finally, he reached forward and rang the bell. He must have done this a thousand times in his life, but it never felt like it did now.

No good would come of this visit. Nothing good whatsoever. It might even end a long friendship.

A moment later, Sampson was surprised that it was Nana Mama who came to the door. The old girl was dressed in a flowery blue robe and looked even tinier than usual, like an ancient bird that ought to be worshipped. And in this house, she surely was, even by him.

"John, what's the matter now? What is it? I'm almost afraid to ask. Well, come inside, come inside. You'll scare all the neighbors."

"They're already scared, Nana," Sampson drawled, and attempted a smile. "This is Southeast, remember?"

"Don't try to make a joke out of this, John. Don't you dare. What are you here for?"

Sampson suddenly felt like he was a teenager again, caught in one of Nana's infamous stern glares. There was something so damn familiar about this scene. It reminded him of the time he and Alex got caught stealing records at Grady's while they were in middle school. Or the time they were smoking weed behind John Carroll High School and got busted by an assistant principal, and Nana had to come to get them released.

"I have to talk to Alex," Sampson said. "It's important, Nana. We need to wake him up."

"And why is that?" she tapped one extended foot and asked. "Quarter past three in the morning. Alex doesn't work for the city of Washington anymore. Why can't everybody just leave him be? You of all people, John Sampson. You know better than to come around here now, middle of the night, looking for his help again."

Sampson didn't usually argue with Nana Mama, but this time he did. "I'm afraid it can't wait, Nana. And I don't need Alex's help this time. He needs mine."

Then Sampson walked right past Nana and into the Cross house – uninvited.

IT WAS ALMOST 4:00 A.M., and Sampson and I were riding back to the First District station house in his car. I was wide awake now, and wired. My nervous system felt like it was vibrating.

Maria's murderer? After all these years? Was it even a faint possibility that the killer could be caught more than ten years after my wife was shot down? The whole thing felt unreal to me. Back then, I'd been all over the case for a year, and I'd never completely given up the chase. And now we might suddenly find the killer? Was it possible?

We arrived at the station house on Fourth Street and hurried inside, neither of us talking. A precinct house during the night shift can be a lot like an emergency room: You never know what to expect when you step inside. This time, I didn't have a clue, but I couldn't wait to talk to Giametti.

It seemed unusually quiet when we walked in the front door – but that all changed in a hurry. It was obvious to both Sampson and me that something was wrong when we got down to the holding cells. Half a dozen detectives and uniforms were standing around. They looked way too alert and anxious for this time of morning. Something was definitely up.

Sampson's new partner, Marion Handler, spotted us and hustled over to John. Handler ignored me, and I did my best to pay him no mind, either. I'd talked to him a couple of times, and I thought the detective was a showy punk. I wondered why John put up with him the way he did.

Maybe he saw something in Handler that I didn't, or maybe Sampson was finally mellowing just a little.

"You're not gonna believe this shit. It's off the charts," he said to Sampson. "Somebody got to Giametti. I shit you not, Sampson. He's over there dead in his cell. Somebody got to him in here."

I was feeling numb all over as Handler led us back to the last holding cell on the block. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. First we had a lead on Maria's killer's whereabouts, and then the man who gave us that lead was murdered? In here?